


the farmer / the soldier

by miss_jojo



Category: Stardew Valley (Video Game)
Genre: Consensual Infidelity, F/M, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-28
Updated: 2020-11-28
Packaged: 2021-03-10 06:21:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,863
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27749692
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/miss_jojo/pseuds/miss_jojo
Summary: The thunder cracked, the lightning striked, and the rain drummed upon the roof of his small house, his wife's snores accompanying the cacophonic noises that kept him awake, awake enough to leave the warmth of his bed and enter the kitchen, a burning wick providing the only light in the otherwise dead room. The flickering candle illuminated the small book in front of him, a book bound with leather, the pages yellowed and swollen with the years and words that filled them. He fumbled through the pages with no true purpose- it was just another lonely night with rain, much like the nights he encountered overseas, so he had to seek comfort in something- the things he carried, like the dog tags of fallen comrades, jaded photos of his high school friends, a pack of cigarettes, and the small book he carried like it was the Bible. He thumbed through the small pages until he found what he really was looking for, the real reason he was up in the middle of the night, looking through a book filled with memories, traumatic and otherwise. And like it was instinct, he grabbed his coat, laced up his boots, and braved the storm.
Relationships: Kent & Female Player (Stardew Valley)
Comments: 1
Kudos: 13





	the farmer / the soldier

**Author's Note:**

> i always liked kent and his character- i always thought he had the most potential out of everyone in pelican town. id drop everyone for him if he was romanceable. anyway, here is a story i had an idea for, but couldn't really flesh it out the way i wanted. it's about him thinking the farmer looks so similar to someone from his past, their smiles alike. it's just him talking to her, understanding himself a bit better through the course of the conversation. thank you for reading!

He could not care less for her brazen dress that was as black as the night sky, with little jewels embroidered in the fabric as if she plucked its stars and placed it on the silk, or how her hair was coiffed so elaborately that it surely must've taken all evening, or that her heels were much too tall, almost something to be vain and off-putting. His wife continued to whisper into his ear all about the strange woman who walked in, her hair donning a halo created from the low-hanging lights of the saloon, the halo a humoring feature that seemingly contradicts with his wife's reprimanding insults. She waved at the pair, her nails glinting red as she did so, her smile pearl-white, and with that, time seemed to stop. She walked through the crowd, the only thing that appeared to move as the rest of the world was drowned out, the red sea parted for her as she made her way towards the couple. His heart began to thud in his chest, and he couldn't place why- it was only when she stood face-to-face with them did he realize.

His wife eagerly greeted the woman, despite her admonishing remarks just moments prior, their hands clasped before she went in for an embrace, all the while, thanking her for attending this soiree. It was, after all, a night to celebrate. It marked a week since the soldier returned home, home to his family and friends, to his wife who had been waiting decades for him, to his children who grew up without a father. It was a night to celebrate life and love, that it always triumphs in the end- at least, that's what his wife sold him on as she discussed having this little get-together at the nearby saloon in the village to prove to everyone who ever doubted her that he indeed came back, back to her. But in his mind, it was just another excuse to drink. But, with the sight of this woman, things proved to show that fate had its own reasons to take him to this party on this wintry night.

"Darling, this is the farmer that I was telling you about. She helps with the kids, drops off fresh fruit, bakes these delicious cookies for our book club- I am obsessed with this one!" The words escaping his wife's lips dissipated into the air as he continued to stare at the woman, her face so close, yet so far away. He almost moved closer, but a hand placed on his back brought him out of his reverie, his wife's eyes narrowed as the farmer looked at him expectantly. "Do I know you?" was all he could manage to say, his mouth suddenly dry, his forehead perspiring.

And there was that smile once more, as she dismissed his worries with a wave of her hand. "No, I don't recognize you, but maybe I did in another life." She lifted a bejeweled hand adorned in bracelets to her forehead, tucking an escaped strand behind her ear. Another smile lit up her features. "Anyway, I just wanted to extend my congratulations to you. I know this is our first time meeting, but we are all glad to have you back with us. When I first moved here, everything was so enchanting- even the dew upon the morning grass looked like twinkling stars. I'm glad you can enjoy what this valley has to offer once again." 

Her words meant little-to-nothing to him at this moment- he was far too focused on the central fact that it wasn't their first time meeting, but rather, he in fact had met her before. But she just smiled her smile, something that started to irritate him- doesn't she recognize him as well? He almost reached out to grab her arm as she began to turn around, but his wife beat him to it, grabbing ahold of his own wrist, her nostrils flared as she glared at him. "I'm sorry, I thought I knew her," he spoke softly, his eyes following the woman as she navigated through the small bar as his wife berated him for making the farmer feel so uncomfortable- how else will she get discounted organic vegetables? He apologized aimlessly once again, then took his cue to head to the bar.

-

The thunder cracked, the lightning striked, and the rain drummed upon the roof of his small house, his wife's snores accompanying the cacophonic noises that kept him awake, awake enough to leave the warmth of his bed and enter the kitchen, a burning wick providing the only light in the otherwise dead room. The flickering candle illuminated the small book in front of him, a book bound with leather, the pages yellowed and swollen with the years and words that filled them. He fumbled through the pages with no true purpose- it was just another lonely night with rain, much like the nights he encountered overseas, so he had to seek comfort in something- the things he carried, like the dog tags of fallen comrades, jaded photos of his high school friends, a pack of cigarettes, and the small book he carried like it was the Bible. He thumbed through the small pages until he found what he really was looking for, the real reason he was up in the middle of the night, looking through a book filled with memories, traumatic and otherwise. And like it was instinct, he grabbed his coat, laced up his boots, and braved the storm.

The farmer had just unpinned her hair from a long day of work- although it was storming outside, she had tons to do inside that she worked well into the evening. The locks of her hair cascaded down her back as she walked towards her bed, so eager to dream away the aches and soreness that crept deep into her body, all so she can wake up refreshed and do the same tomorrow. But then, she heard something- the old wooden walls of her late grandfather's farm hid the roaring storm very well, but this sound was different, pronounced. She moved the drapes that hung against the windows, the glass murky with rain. Within it, she could outline the figure of a man knocking upon her door, her heart rate spiking as she realized who the silhouette belonged to.

She opened the door, urging him to come inside, despite how he dripped like he himself carried a cloud of rain. He tracked mud by her front door, bringing the outside world in, right upon her hardwood floors. She whispered for him to wait right there, her horror written on the crease near her brow, as she disappeared inside the halls of the house, only the emerge with a large towel, mop, and bucket. He took it gratefully, and a bit sheepishly as well, drying his hair and face as she started to clean up the mud. He watched her, completely abashed once realizing what he's doing to her- what a mess this all is! What really is he trying to accomplish by coming here in the dead of night? He wanted to formulate an excuse to go home and lie in bed, just from the sheer embarrassment of having disrupted her night- she obviously was about to tuck herself into bed, her cotton nightgown on, her hair loose. But she spoke lightheartedly, with that smile that captured his attention once more. "It's been a while, soldier. There are better ways of getting my attention, you know."

"Listen, I'm really sorry- I guess I didn't understand what I was doing until I knocked on that door- forgive me, this really is a mess..." he trailed off, scratching the back of his head as his ears suddenly felt very warm. Despite his awkwardness, she just looked up and stepped closer to him, her hands atop the mop, the window leaking light, swimming in her features. She smiled; her voice soft against the raging storm that howled outside. "It's alright. It's been a few weeks since that party, and I haven't seen you since. I'm assuming this is something about how you know who I am better than I know myself?" There was no malice in her words, and it made him feel all the worse about confronting her in the dead of night. 

"Well, either way, how about you leave that soaking wet jacket at the door, take off your boots, and come into the kitchen. I'll make some tea to warm you up. Would you like toast?" She walked into the kitchen, her voice traveling pleasantly through the living room. He snapped to attention, following her instructions. He racked his brain to find a way to pay her back for all her hospitality, cleaning up after him. Later, it turns out he simply brought her a bouquet of flowers and the book he carried so religiously.

He stared at the small of her back with really no thoughts in his head at all- it was just something to focus on while he dozed off with eyes wide open. She turned a bit, catching him staring so intently at her, blushing slightly with the intensity of his gaze. He really did look like a soldier, with his tall and built frame, his hair just a buzzcut that far overgrown, slightly graying at his temples. His face looked young, but it's always the eyes- his age was written so clearly there. She continued to go through the motions of boiling water, grabbing some tea leaves she kept stashed in the cabinet, the aroma relaxing her a bit from this tense atmosphere as she remained under his gaze.

It had been a few minutes, but it felt much longer, the room so, so quiet. He was so quiet, to the point she almost forgot he was there- she had stopped the gas and removed the kettle from the stove when she paused, confused as to why she was making tea at this hour, until she turned around and saw the soldier awaiting at her table, almost giving her a fright. He of course, didn't notice, his thoughts so strictly occupied by something else. She resumed, grabbing a pair of cups, the jar of sugar, bringing all the elements to him.

Once she settled down, the room was still once more. She stared at his hands as she drank her tea, his fingers tracing the spine of the small notebook his own gaze set upon. His hands shifted towards the cup, which he ended up drinking only one sip out of respect for her effort to make him a cup of tea in the middle of the night. He never touched it again after that initial sip, but she didn't notice, as all her concentration was pointed towards the words he was yet to say. The rain was unrelenting, the lightning flared through the sky, all the elements of the storm speaking in harmony to make up for the silence between the pair. And finally, when he spoke, even the outside world quieted down for him.

"I would've burned this book if I knew how to let go. But I figured... someday I will need it, and perhaps it's because of you."

He opened the small book, writing and drawings covering the paper end to end, the pencil markings so dark atop the damp paper. He did try his best to keep them dry as he traversed to her farm, her cottage, tucking them deep into his jacket, holding onto it like it was his own beating heart. In a way it was, and he thumbed through the pages, about to reveal his soul to her. "It seems personal."

"It is. I only felt stirred to show it to you because... well, to explain why I couldn't take my eyes off you that night."

She tilted her head, smiling softly, very freely, very comfortably, as if to say 'continue'. "It was when you came to drop off something, and Vincent was crying- he had gotten hurt. Scraped his elbows, was a bleeding mess when he came inside from playing. Of course, my wife was out, she always is nowadays, and God only knows I had no idea where anything was in my own home- couldn't find any bandages, turning the whole house upside down just as he cries and cries. I snapped at him too, against my better judgment, but he just was crying and wouldn't stop- as if to show everyone in town how terrible of a parent I am. But then you came, and you put down your basket, picked him up wordlessly, set him on the counter, found the med-kit just like that, cleaned his wound, wrapped it in gauze... He stopped crying with your touch. Like it was your nature to help, to heal. And well, it just reminded me of someone." He finally flipped through the book, landing on a page with various faces, lines and lines of messy handwriting accompanying each visage, arrows pointing here and there. Just as the farmer leaned in to catch a glimpse of what decorated the page, he shut it closed. Their eyes met and he took a deep breath. "This holds a lot of memories, good and bad. I know I need to confront my problems, but I've been too terrified to even try, I mean, I'm still terrified, as if the heart of darkness itself lies within these pages, and it can simply swallow me whole again. But I just wanted to explain why I thought I knew you. And maybe, just by explaining it, maybe that will be enough to help me understand what I need to do.

"I was captured by an enemy base and held as a prisoner of war. My family knows as much. They don’t know necessarily what happened to me and I intend to keep it that way- I myself don't want to remember either. But it was raining like today- harder and harder with every passing second and eventually the rage of the water had pooled and flowed throughout the camp, the area completely flooded. Of course, chaos ensued, and in that chaos, I and some others escaped. I just remember the rain on my face. It had felt so good. I thought after dozens of nights sleeping in the rain underneath the foliage of the jungle, I'd come to hate the rain and everything it symbolized, but running besides those men, the rain on my face... It was freeing at that moment, alone.

" I had escaped, although narrowly, but that was just the beginning of it. It had felt like years living out in the wilderness, but later I came to understand it was only four months. I got by, just barely. I don't remember much, as days melted into each other, the nights shortening, the days lengthening... spring was ending, and summer was upon the horizon.

"It was getting hotter and hotter, and of course, all of my water sources were drying up, plants were dying, animals hidden away from the heat. I had traveled for so long, and I just remember being so afraid, having so much dread, knowing that I was going to die and be picked apart by the scavengers that flew above my head. I suppose fate had different plans for me because I remember seeing faces, in and out of consciousness, carrying me, after I collapsed from sheer exhaustion. I think... I think I was out for days, maybe a week. When I finally came to, I had all sorts of tubes in and out of me. The doctor, he told me about all sorts of stuff I had going on- sprains, infections, tears, deficiencies, parasites- the whole nine yards. Did I feel any of it? No, I was so hellbent on surviving that it was only when the doctor listed them, like symptoms of death itself, that I felt visceral, burning pain throughout my body. But they were doctors, and they did the best they could. And I'm here, aren't I? They found it in the goodness of their hearts to waste supplies on me, and I think about it every day. Did they do the right thing? I think about that every day too.

"Once I had gotten a bit better, enough to stay awake longer than a few hours at a time, they told me about their situation. The enemy had destroyed the camp and killed most of the people there, only the few that were out for patrol survived to find the camp in ruins. They seemed to do a drive-by, not touching the supplies in storage, so the survivors treated the few people who were clinging onto life. Their radio was busted however, the car tires slashed, so they decided the best they could do is sit tight until the main base realized one med-facility went off the grid, rather than taking their chances and try to find another base or village. This camp: they were in the middle of enemy territory, meant to take care of wounded soldiers, but it had morphed to a den for survivors. There were some soldiers like myself, who as far as I could tell, never awoke from their coma. I wonder if they were drafted or chose to come there? Does it matter, if we all pulled triggers, dropped bombs?

"I was in that camp for six months before we were finally rescued. The doctor was a good man, he could tell how antsy I was. He gave me this notebook reserved for patient notes, saying that maybe these books should be filled with something better than just names of people he couldn't save. Here he is." His voice diminished into a whisper, as he pointed to an older gentleman, with small glasses atop his nose, contrasting against his large eyes. He was balding, but his smile was so young. The farmer drew a finger across the page as if the paper could come to life, materializing into a living, breathing figure, sitting at the table with them, not just constricted to the confines of the aged paper. "You're a wonderful artist."

"I had spent hours with him every day. I've grown to memorize his face. Here, I wrote about him: 'His accent speaks of him being from the east, but he's so well-associated with western medication that he must've been educated here. He has far too much compassion to be in the military. How did he get caught up in here? I finally asked him- he says he has no family, no friends, only his job that he cares about. He owed it to his fellow coworkers who did have loved ones to take up this burden, so they don't have to, risking their own children to become motherless, fatherless. I think he regrets his decision though.'"

She didn't speak a single word, almost didn't dare to breathe, as he continued to read off his accounts of various people he had lived with for what seemed so long to him, so little to her. They had grown to be a family to him, his eyes spoke of such love. When he thought he'd die, the ones beside him were all who mattered, not the ones waiting at home, whom he hadn't seen in years. He recalled many people, like the nurse who bathed him while he was bedridden, who had seen every inch of him yet still looked him in the eye and acted completely composed although he himself could not. She had bright brown eyes and crows' feet, her hair so curly and long up until she shaved it all off, tired of the twigs and bugs residing in there. There was the therapist, fresh out of college, forced to come here. He would always plead everyone to find some way to leave, trying to convince them to dispatch two people to go off and search for a nearby base, but God forbid he'd be one of them. He was so young that the soldier couldn't say anything to him. Or maybe it was the fact that he saw himself in the boy when he himself was first drafted to the war; his own cowardice reflected like a mirror. Then there were the children, three in total- their cherub faces were sketched onto the paper. They had no real grasp on the situation, thus they just run around happily, screaming with delight as they played with one another. They were so young, yet they understood how sad the soldier was, and would try to make him smile with whatever they found worthy enough for him- flowers, large leaves, round rocks- anything to cheer him up. And with that, his eyes would get misty because these children will grow up to realize he was on the side of their oppressors, the ones who took their parents away before they could even memorize their faces, register their voices. And then they will loathe him and regret every gift they presented to him. But for now, they loved the soldier, and despite not understanding a single word he'd say, they loved whatever came from his mouth- he'd narrate the most mundane things just for them, like the shapes of the clouds that drifted above them or the frogs that croaked in the morning- they listened as if he was speaking magic spells to them.

Then, with a turn of the page, his eyes softened as a woman's face took up a whole page, this visage much more detailed than all the others. The other pages had small faces, adorned with a paragraph or two, but hers had lines upon lines upon lines of cursive, sloppy and neat, the passages entwined on the paper having been written down throughout numerous days, weeks. He had written much about this woman, and he prepared to read it to her by giving an awkward smile and small preface. "This woman... she's the one I'd imagine when I decide to reminisce about everyone from that camp. And you... I don't know who you are, but I can’t look at you and not think of this woman. And I understand that is a stupid statement, because you're your own person, and it's very selfish for me to just take you as this woman, but... you are just as striking as her. And if you are not her, you are her reincarnation, and seeing you with Vince that day... I guess it just solidified that."

"She was the drug doctor- pharmacist. She was there to dispense and administer whatever junk they pumped me with for the first few weeks. She would track my progress, check my vitals, make sure I keep up with my meds, whatever. She made a joke... here, I'll just read now:

"'She treats me on the days the other doctor was far too tired to check in with me and the other patients. I feel like I'm in a strange limbo, where I'm neither dead, nor alive, but she's there to remind me that either way, I'm still breathing. Last week I had a grave infection- can't remember the name, but she was there to treat me. She took her cool hands and cupped my cheek, telling me that I'm doing great. But in my half-dead state, how could I tell her I'm not doing great? That I never was "doing great"? I was lying in a bed, covered in lumps and bruises, abscesses and hives, my head murky and my heart slow, and I deserved it all and more. I'm surprised the devil didn't simply take me already. How could I be doing "great," as she so kindly put it, with all the blood on my hands? She didn't know about the horrors I witnessed, the atrocities I've done. She was here to heal others, they all were- they were using their blessed gifts to save lives, and I came to take them. If I told her that, would she say the same thing? Would she even look me in the eye?

"'She always says things that I want to respond to but couldn't. Either from my inability to do so or because I was too much of a coward to tell her the contrary. Yesterday she had made a joke saying that I must hate her since she only comes around when I'm in pain, so much pain that she has to inject some morphine to ease me. Some sort of conditioning effect- now whenever I see her, I'm in pain. I wanted to tell her she's wrong. That whenever I see her, I feel relief. I feel the pain subsiding, dissipating into nothingness. Whenever she comes, I'm in excruciating pain, but when she leaves, I feel better- amazing. Like she's a guardian angel protecting me from the gross reality, the truth that I may very well be dying. She made me forget everything. I wanted to tell her that I love her, but the idea of falling in love with someone that I only ever knew if such a superficial basis is so ludicrous, it's unreal until now where I look at her and only want her. When you're out in the core of the wilderness, where disputes are resolved with gunfire, where life and death fall into the hands of faceless politicians, every minute is your last, every morning is not guaranteed- despite that feeling of mortality, a paradoxical feeling of invincibility washes over you, where nothing matters anymore, so might as well drink and be merry, fight 'til martyrdom, and love to death." He paused, as he flipped to the next page, his last words echoing in the farmer's ears.

"'A few days ago, we found by pure chance mangoes the size of footballs and decided it was a night to celebrate, for we had lost so much but we were still standing. And she stood alone, smiling her soft smile as the moonlight graced her features and I asked to dance, because what else was there to do but to act on our own death wishes? We did not exchange a word but once our hands locked, her eyes stood fixed on mine. The action itself was so innocent, but I knew it was a sin deep down to look at her like that, the way I did. She has me wrapped around her finger without even knowing it- the guilt is unbearable, but with her, time stops, and I feel like my past and future doesn't matter, only her face and her lips that frame her smile, that's all that I really need. If I died beside her, would that make everything okay? If she killed me herself, would that be a benevolent act of love? If I died by her hands, would my sins be washed away?'"

He looked up from the notebook, catching a glimpse of her expression as another jolt of lightning lit up the sky. She looked so much like the drawing in his book. He flushed because in a way, it was as if he was telling the woman from the camp everything he had written, how he felt, about the war and about her. He scratched the back of his head, a silence fell upon the two, almost comfortable, almost not, teetering on the fine line between tense and relaxed. He had told her everything that was withheld in the small notebook, and she listened. Was that enough? He didn't necessarily feel any better- just that he revealed his soul to the woman who bore another's face, and that perhaps she'd say something in return, or perhaps not.

She finally broke the silence by getting up grabbing the tea that he only drank one sip of, now ice-cold. She dumped it in the sink, her shoulders tense as if she wanted to say something, but still had trouble stringing the words together. When she turned around, leaning on the kitchen counter, her hair shining with the moonlight that flowed through the drapes, her eyes locked on his, clairvoyance written in them. She spoke.

"Did you ever tell her you love her?"

"No."

"Do you think that's why you can't let go?"

What could he say to that? Nothing. The two sat in silence, the farmer and the soldier, life and death, the rain making a comeback and filling up the space between them, its sound both calm and enraged. And with that, she tilted her head and moved her hand to the top of his, the tension breaking like glass, his fingers separating so hers can fit snugly between them. She whispered in a low voice, her eyes shining despite minimal light entering the room, her voice velvet against his skin, her hands cool as he flushed, "What if I was her for tonight? Would you say it then?" Her words had confused him for a second- but only one. The next moment, he removed his hands from hers, shifting it towards her jaw, her eyes fluttering shut. Then he closed the gap between their lips.

**Author's Note:**

> ok so i obviously don't condone cheating, but i would hope that what the story conveys is above just marital infidelity but rather a man attempting to let go of his past. anyway, it is what it is. thanks for reading <3


End file.
